Grey Ghost
by esquiggle
Summary: It is cold, and Hans is unprepared for the cold, so he finds a solution involving a certain long, grey coat. / Anna discovers that the past isn't in the past, really. (It's just an old coat, but Hans is cold and Anna is bitter.) Two part fic, before/after the movie.


He was shivering but he hardly noticed until one of the ambassadors pointed it out to him.

"Oh, I am," Hans laughed sheepishly, a white puff of air slipping between his lips like the physical manifestation of his words. "I suppose I was in a reverie." That was the truth; he had been turning the matter over in his mind and forgotten his surroundings. _He_, thirteenth in line, was now in charge of a _kingdom._ And, he added to himself, with high chances of keeping it. With his fiancée foolishly wandering around in the snow wearing only a decorative cloak and flimsy spring dress, it was practically his kingdom now. Though there was the matter of the queen in the mountains, the queen who could return at any moment demanding her throne back...

Well, he would cross that bridge when he got there. Hans decided that, in the meantime, he should warm up.

In spite of the fires blazing in every room, the castle was cold. The thick walls kept the cold in; only the few feet around the fireplaces was warm enough to be comfortable. Maids bustled around to check on each room and find winter beddings. Hans approached one of the girls, flashing his charming smile, and asked if there were spare cloaks to be found anywhere. He hadn't brought anything substantial of his own, of course, because he had thought that he was arriving in the spring and staying only a week. How wrong he had been on both counts.

"Yes, my lord, there are extra cloaks that the staff use during the winter in the linen room. Shall I fetch one for you..?" She looked through her long lashes at him.

"Ah, actually, could you take me there, miss?" He offered his arm as a charming prince was supposed to.

The maid giggled, "Certainly, your highness!"

The true test of a man's character was not how he treated his equals, but how he treated his lessers, Hans thought smugly. He was practically a saint-in the people's eyes, anyway.

It was a quick voyage to the servants' quarters, which Hans spent listening earnestly to the maid chatter on and observing every inch of the castle. He smirked inwardly at the way each maid and footman they passed curtseyed and bowed, the former shooting glances of envy at the blissful maid on his arm, the latter genteel and respectful. He responded to each with a nod and smile in turn, ever the people's man.

The linen room was enormous, split into sections with long rows of shelves that loomed to the ceiling, and each shelf held piles of clothing, all neatly folded, of every assortment: undershirts and stockings and skirts and vests and, Hans noted, cloaks. The cloaks were all of a dull, scratchy material in a plain, usual cloak pattern, simple garments for simple people. It certainly would not do for him; he was a prince, of course he couldn't wear a servant's clothing.

Townspeople, however...

"What is being done with all these cloaks?" he asked of the maid.

"Well, the staff was reduced to a fifth of the size a little over ten years ago" her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper, "-for obvious reasons-" She gave him a meaningful look, which he responded to with a smooth nod. She resumed at a normal volume. "So most of these cloaks are just lying here unused."

"Perfect," said Hans. He told her of his plans for them, plans which would rocket him into "angel" status he was sure, to which she beamed and eagerly skittered off to prepare for.

Strolling slowly to admire the castle, Hans walked back the way they had come. He really had to commend the decor of the palace; it was elegant and stately and perfect for him. Everything, from the ceilings arching high overhead to the design of the carpets on the floor, was just to his taste. Except for the portraits of ancestors on the walls. Portraits like that, which every royal family seemed to have, had always scared Hans as a child, with their stern faces and cold, judgmental eyes, but as he grew up he began to respect and admire them in spite of their gravity. His only problem with these was that he didn't know any of them. He couldn't stop at a painting and say, ah, that's my nose, or hey, that's my chin, because he was an outsider at this castle and didn't belong here no matter how perfect it seemed to him. (He briefly considered removing all of these portraits and replacing them with ones of himself.)

He stopped at a picture of the former king. A tall, handsome man with excellent facial hair, the king reminded Hans of himself. The king was wearing a uniform with many medals hanging from sashes and bright gold buttons glinting from the chest, and stood rigidly upright. Hans straightened up a bit more unconsciously. Suddenly, an idea began to form in his mind, and he couldn't help but break into a smile, a real smile, at the thought.

Turning away from the portrait, Hans resumed his walk with a more purposeful gait; he admired in mirrors as he passed by how the speed made him look more dashing and daring, coattails flaring out behind him. He knew the way to his destination, in a general sense-Anna had showed him briefly during their tour of the castle two nights ago. Had it really been only two nights since that fateful moment? Had he really, after twenty three years of waiting, gotten a castle and a kingdom in two days? It was practically a joke!

But, he mustn't get overconfident. There was still much to be done before he could be king.

He slowed when he reached the wing where he knew Anna's room was. The logical method, he thought, would be to check each room in the area until he found what he was looking for, and he'd just have to trust his instinct to know that he had found it.

Hans's intuition was generally a straight-pointing compass, and it didn't fail this time. After poking his head through only a few doors, he came across a bedroom that had to be what he sought. It was large, much bigger than the other rooms, with a spacious sitting room leading to the main bedroom. A large, canopied bed loomed opposite the door. Everything was immaculate, but, in spite of the grandly made up bed and impersonal knickknacks, it was stark in the way of a place long abandoned: the room was cold as a tomb, lacking the lingering moment of warmth that you can feel in an often visited room, a brief glow of companionship like someone has just stepped out and will return shortly. This room was elegant and regal and empty-it had to be the king's.

Hans stepped into the room with the finality of one stepping from a cliff into the open air. He realized he was holding his breath, waiting for some sign, some feeling that this was right, he was /meant/ to be here; when nothing happened, he mentally admonished himself for acting so foolish. Of course it was his destiny.

Placing his steps deliberately, Hans made his way around the room, savoring the beauty of what he was doing. The doors of the wardrobe swung open with a creaking grandeur, the effect of its polished surface giving way to expanses of cloth causing a smile to spread across the prince's face. Jackets, suits, cloaks, all jumped at him, rich burgundy and sleek black and forest green. None of them were precisely what he was looking for, though, so he continued perusing the wardrobe, eyes skimming along the hangers like they were book spines, until at last he found exactly the right novel. It was an unobtrusive, dove grey cloak.

Racing through his chest came a thrill of triumph as he tugged the coat from the clasps of its hanger. A tiny puff of soft dust, like a wearied exhale, flew from the shoulders. Hans brushed the jacket to rid it of any other dust it may have collected, but besides that initial layer of dust, the cloak was pristine. It still smelled faintly of mountain air, and perhaps an earthy spice.

The shoulders of the jacket fit nicely along his own, forming a noble silhouette. Hans eyed his reflection with considerable pleasure-though he usually gravitated toward bright colors, the grey suited him, lending him an unassuming air. He wanted to come off as dignified but approachable, princely but not pompous. Besides, grey was, like him, not quite black or white, and he appreciated the symbolism of it all.

Now he felt the sharp _rightness_ pressing in his stomach that had been lacking earlier. He pasted on his most charismatic smile. With one last satisfied glance at himself, Hans pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, ready to be the king that Arendelle had been missing all these years.


End file.
